


The Boy with Fire in His Eyes

by lordelannette



Series: Dark Steve Rogers Fics [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Both boys are 16, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Cigarettes, Dark Steve Rogers, In Between Pre and Post Serum Steve Rogers, M/M, Matches, POV Steve Rogers, Pyromaniac Bucky Barnes, Pyromaniac Steve Rogers, Shy Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Top Steve Rogers, Twink Bucky Barnes, dark bucky barnes, lighters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-09-05 22:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20280526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordelannette/pseuds/lordelannette
Summary: Steve's gradual desire for the boy boiled beneath his skin like a pot of water left unattended on a kitchen stove. It started out warm yet unmoving, but as time went by, it began to quiver underneath the developing heat until it bubbled over the rim and scorched down the side to drip into the very flames that aroused it. And by then there was no way of calming it down.(Or a Pyromaniac Steve & Bucky AU)





	The Boy with Fire in His Eyes

If Steve was asked later on to pinpoint the moment he’d first laid eyes on the object of his desire, he wouldn’t be able to recount the surge of possessive need that ripped through his stomach, his knees buckling as he forced himself to withhold from taking what was offered right then and there, because it never really happened that way. 

In order to fall for someone you have to know they exist before anything else, and up until halfway through junior year, Bucky Barnes was only a small mop of brown hair amongst a flush of nameless faces crowding the hallway. Steve might’ve heard a muttered apology for bumping into him on accident, might’ve seen him out of the corner of his eye as he and Sam claimed their seats in the back of the bus, but he never felt anything remarkable that made his breath stop short. The boy was just background noise, another human with a life of his own that Steve never even registered he might become a part of.

No, Steve’s gradual desire for the boy boiled beneath his skin like a pot of water left unattended on a kitchen stove. It started out warm yet unmoving, but as time went by it began to quiver underneath the developing heat until it bubbled over the rim and scorched down the side to drip into the very flames that aroused it.

And by then there was no way of calming it down.

I I I

The first time Steve sees Bucky, there’s a flimsy black apron tied around his waist and a plastic name tag clipped to the breast pocket of his shirt that reads, “ _ Hello, I’m Steve. How may I help you? _ ”, with his name chicken-scratched into the blank with a black sharpie.

He’s working the five to eleven shift tonight, and there’s a backpack full of study guides waiting for him in the breakroom, most likely to be filled out the following morning on the freezing cold bus stop bench, via assistance from his “friend”, Sam. Finals are next week, and that, plus the pressure from his mom to maintain an English grade teetering on the precipice between a high C and a low B-- not to mention the added late nights at the convenience store-- has forced a purple hue blooming underneath his eyes and his fingers itching for something to relieve him.

The monotonous beeping of barcodes being slid across the scanner and into his hands to be bagged creates a dull rhythm that he focuses on to keep himself awake. It’s a real bummer that the company doesn’t allow him to keep his earbuds in while he’s working, as they pride themselves on “ _ service with a smile! _ ”, which Steve hardly understands. People don’t come into a convenience store when their lives are falling apart hoping the employees will renew their will to live, and even if they did, a smile and a thank-you from the high school bag boy wouldn’t really make much of a difference. Having his music playing would at least allow the customer the pleasure of not watching him keel over from exhaustion and lack of sleep.

It just goes to show how tired he is when he doesn’t realize he’s been stuffing package after package of dry ramen noodles into the bag until he’s at least jammed ten of them into it, squished together like sardines in a can. Steve looks up and hums quietly to himself in amusement as they continue to get pushed his way - he likes ramen just as much as the next guy, if you’re not counting outliers like this kid.

The boy is brunet, about his age, with a lean face that has strong qualities to it. He’s fairly handsome, if Steve dwells on him long enough, with piercing grey eyes that shoot straight through his goddamn soul. Steve regards him for so long that he doesn’t register the backpack slung across the boy’s slim shoulders nor the ten dollar bill that his thin hands are holding out. The way he carries himself is like he’s trying to disappear, and his shoulder length hair helps him hide enough that if no one were to be looking carefully at his face, the boy wouldn’t be turning any heads or taking any numbers. But Steve  _ is  _ looking and he can’t help but wonder why the boy is trying to be smaller than he already is when he obviously has the power to make himself so much larger, so much more powerful in the grand scheme of life. 

The boy doesn’t look up from the bill in his hands until the shrill voice of the cashier breaks the soothing pulse of barcode beeps. “Can I see your ID, sir?” she asks, uninterested but going through the motions, reciting the required phrase memorized since day one.

Steve pulls his attention from the boy’s face, blindly bagging the third can of Arizona tea, and raises his eyebrows at the two-pack of bic lighters she’s holding between her chipped nails. His eyes dart to the boy, who’s nervously plucking the sleeve of his baggy black cardigan, cheeks flushed, breathing sharply through his nose, looking so guilty that Steve can almost smell it rolling off him.

“I-I’ve bought one here before without one. There, um, isn’t any law against it. That, ah - that I’m aware of, at least.” He stammers after a moment, sounding like he wants a hole in the linoleum floor to swallow him up and get him out of the store. He’s nervous, Steve realizes. It’s obvious as daylight. Steve leans forward just the slightest bit, packing up the last of the Arizona cans while watching the scene in front of him in his peripheral, keeping his eyes low.

The cashier sighs and drawls out her practiced speech. “We’ve been making some changes in our stores the past few months, I’m afraid that I can’t sell you these unless you can give me proof that you’re over eighteen.” The boy gulps visibly. Steve feels a light sheen of sweat gather on his palms.

“Then I, um - I guess I can’t buy one ‘cause I don’t really have an ID or anything,” the boy replies.

The cashier yawns and Steve tracks the boy’s line of sight as she places it next to her keyboard, the package to be returned to its shelf with the rest of the wood, charcoal, and various fire paraphernalia the store carries. Steve might’ve imagined the way the boy’s eyes glaze over longingly at the lighters before he straightens himself up and awkwardly hands the crumpled bill over to her, eager to get the money out of his hands as if it burned the tips of his fingers. “Just the ramen and stuff then, I guess.”

Steve snorts softly at this for who knows why - the kid’s got an arsenal that’ll last him for at least a week if he doesn’t intend to eat anything else. Their eyes meet for a moment when he transfers the multiple plastic bags into the boy’s arms, and he takes note of how quickly he fixes those grey eyes to the floor and refuses Steve’s mandatory offer of assistance to his car.

It isn’t until the boy is out the sliding double doors that Steve’s nostrils flare at the lingering scent of mountain ash and lighter fluid hanging in the air.

And it isn't until after Steve's back at home abandoning his stack of study guides for the warmth of his hand on his groin that the fact that the kid still had his backpack at eleven o'clock at night registers in his mind.

I I I

Steve proves himself correct the following morning when he’s hunched over himself on the bus stop bench in the thickest hoodie he could dig out of his drawer, Sam’s half finished homework perched on one knee and his own blank copy on the other. His fingers are most likely literally frozen to the pen at this point, and he can see his breath as it fans out over his lap and crystallizes in the air. It’s pretty mild for an early January morning, and he feels like he should be grateful he doesn’t live in an area that snows or even rains all that much, but it doesn’t change the fact that his balls are blue despite excessive masturbation that morning, as Sam so eloquently put it.

He and Sam aren’t exactly friends, but they’re the closest substitution either of them have, and Steve’s okay with that. Sam’s quiet and keeps to himself, shadows Steve in a lurching gait that he claims is due to a severe condition of scoliosis - although Steve’s had his suspicions - and helps him feign a sense of companionship. It’s an arrangement that works for him, no dependence, no responsibilities further than sharing notes and picking fun, just someone to keep him from feeling alone. Steve’s glad to have the silent company as the bus rolls up to the curb and Sam fills the empty seat next to him.

Sam’s ears are plugged up with his headphones as soon as he sits down and Steve kicks his feet up onto the metal rung framing the seat in front of him. He rests his head against the windowsill, content with watching the people blur into the distance as the bus rumbles along.

He can still smell the charred burn that clung to the brunet boy’s skin as he rushed out of the store. Since last night he’d been catching himself taking sharp intakes of breath in hope that some of the smell had clung to his nose and it might filter through his senses again. The boy had been so strange, so unsure.

It wasn't like the kid was clouding his mind, but brief flashes of slender fingers crinkling a ten dollar bill, a heavy backpack dragging a cardigan off slim shoulders, and the scent of burning pine needles on an oily flame were cropping up in his thoughts and catching him unaware. They certainly didn't have any business wandering into his head when his hand was wrapped around his dick.

But nevertheless, a low-burning craving to see the boy one more time was settling into the corner of his brain. Steve was used to monochrome days that passed without any significance of ever occurring, the monotony of routine and the overwhelming loneliness that could only be cured by a blazing flame that burned color back into his skin. The pain of scalding fingertips and scorched knuckles where the embers dig in, the scent of singed nails and fine hairs wafting into the night sky, the warmth that tingles underneath his skin for hours after he's returned to the coolness of his bedsheets.

This boy made the slightest chip in the lonesome everyday pattern that only Steve’s obsession could break through. The boy was new. The boy was interesting.

And all Steve really wanted was to see him again.

He couldn’t remember when his eyes slipped closed to the tempting pull of sleep, but he could certainly recall the utter shock that causes his muscles to clench around his bones when he’s stirred awake by the creak of the bus turning into a stop. Steve’s jaw sets in a firm line, fingers going cold and rigid in his pockets.

Because right there, climbing up the bus steps and using the hand railing to pull himself up, is a set of long nimble fingers poking out from a familiar pool of black fabric. Soft-looking brown hair on his head.

Steve blinks. Speak of the devil, and he doth appear.

Looking back, Steve probably shouldn’t have been so angry that the next few moments passed in a muddled haze before vanishing into past-tense. There’s the thrumming acceleration of the bus following as it kicks into motion again, tired footsteps tracking a grimy residue on the floor and growing louder as they approach, and the overwhelming flood of nervous recognition in the boy’s eyes when they lock with Steve’s own. The other averts his gaze quickly and pushes past him towards the back of the bus, and Steve finds himself turning in his seat to chase the possibility of a lingering burnt scent that’s long gone. When Steve realizes what he’s doing, his eyes widen and he spins around to face forward, spine stiff against the back of the seat, eyes burning a bald spot into the back of the head sitting in front of him.

His sudden behavior is enough to draw Sam’s attention, and he plucks one headphone from his ear to ask him if he’s okay. It takes a moment for Steve to reply, and when he mutters a soft “yeah, ‘m fine”, it comes out more like a question than anything else.

I I I

After that, Steve starts seeing the brunet boy everywhere. Every morning, the bus skids to a halt just outside a gated neighborhood, and the kid steps on five days a week with a nose flushed pink from the cold. Over the next couple days, Steve finds himself waiting in anticipation for the grinding of brakes against the asphalt when they approach the boy's usual spot, craning his neck to see the brunet shuffle into his seat. There's one day when the bus just drives by, and Steve is taken aback by how unsettled he feels by the lack of the boy’s presence.

When Steve first sees him curled up in a grassy patch near the field at lunch, nursing a can of coke and flipping through the battered pages of a paperback book, Steve stops and stares because it's the only thing he can think to do. The brunet is silently exchanging words with a red headed girl that has razor sharp eyes and pointy fingernails, who seems to be watching everyone yet still keeping her focus on the brunet. 

Steve’s lungs empty and it feels like he's been punched in the gut and he's reeling back in shock, except he's standing perfectly frozen, in complete confusion as to what he should do. When the kid shifts to look up, and the redhead follows his line of sight, Steve's legs make the decision for him and he's pivoting on his heel to walk in any direction, just somewhere away from there. It takes him half an hour to get his hands to stop trembling.

He sees him fairly often after the first few incidents, and in a high school consisting of over three thousand sweaty, pimply, painfully average teenagers, that says something. A glance in the crowded hallway where Steve can only see the brown hair on top of his head, always the look at the bus stop and the inner discomfort when his stop comes before the other boy’s, the hitch in his breath when Steve caught a glimpse of the brunet pulling a shirt over his head when he ran into the locker room to talk with his Phys Ed teacher that one time. It’s funny how much you can see when you know what to look for.  _ Who  _ to look for.

According to Sam, the boy has been attending their grubby little public school for a few years now, made the transfer from middle school to high school right alongside them, but that’s all he knows. Steve starts asking around, talking to people he thinks might respond to him without it being too strange, and he gets a name - Bucky.

It’s kind of a run-of-the-mill name, wouldn’t be on Steve’s top ten list, but it belongs to the boy, therefore it’s perfect. After he sees the kid again - Bucky - in the corner of his eye during a passing period, he decides that it actually does suit him, and he tastes the name on his tongue as it passes his lips in a hushed whisper.

It’s not enough, though. Steve can’t explain the newfound - god forbid - fascination he’s discovered in some random sixteen year-old kid. There are so many things he needs to know, past his birthday and his favorite color and whatnot - the heave of his shoulders when he’s drenched in sweat, the stretch of his smile when it’s directed in Steve’s direction, the scent when he’s fresh out of the shower with a towel wrapped around the circumference of his slim waist, the sound of his laughter when something’s really funny. What he’d look like with the light of a fire flickering across his skin, those supple-looking hands dripping in diesel and shaking with adrenaline.

Of course Steve realizes this isn’t normal behavior, at least for him, but he’s never really had anyone he considered a real friend so perhaps this is how he’s supposed to feel.

But then again, probably not.

I I I

The anger has been building for half an hour when Steve throws his backpack into the dark mass of night outside the window and hears the clank of his supplies jostling against the turf. The joints in his fingers are locking and unlocking without his permission and his teeth grind grooves in one another as he struggles to finish tying off the last knot on his sneakers before gripping the edge of the window and climbing onto the sill. The cold air slams into him immediately and sinks beneath the layers of a flannel, sweatshirt, and t-shirt to prickle his skin with goosebumps. He doesn’t think twice about kicking his feet out from under his weight and his fingers scrape on the chipping paint of the frame as he propels his body towards the ground, shirt slipping up his torso from the momentum. He’s so amped up he can hardly feel it when he lands, the transition between falling and running nearly seamless, stopping only to scoop up his backpack and throw it over his shoulders.

And then all he knows is moving. His shoes have worn a familiar path into their soles so he’s not even thinking as he runs through the night like a knife cutting through the air. His feet hammer against the pavement in time with his ragged breathing, now borderline painful as he sucks the frigid cold into his lungs. He grits his teeth and forces himself to go faster.

When he turns off the main road and breaks through the first line of trees, the muscles in his legs are screaming in agony and he’s hunched forward, shaking in bottled-up anger, teeth bared and lips twitching. A line of saliva drips from his chin and joins the glaze of dew on the forest floor as his clenched teeth rattle his gums sore. He feels weak, tired, and the pain in his knees from the fall earlier starts to register when his jeans scratch against the open skin. The flesh of his fingers is red and raw, the pull of his backpack an anchor. But that white hot anger is still throbbing inside him like a jar full of bees fighting to be released, so he pushes himself further. Faster.

After a few minutes of running he comes to a halt at his usual spot, lungs heaving, his mouth twisted into a snarl. It’s a comparatively small clearing, maybe thirty or forty feet in diameter, encircled by a ring of frosted trees that spear the night on their stalks. He’d been coming here ever since he found it two summers ago on a drunken night with Sam, although his friend had long forgotten it. This place was made for Steve, or at least what he always does with it - most of the ground is bare and the grassy patches are thin and dry, not to mention the weak stream only a stone’s throw from the perimeter. Just looking at it makes his heart speed up in anticipation.

He scouts out for a dry spot - it had rained yesterday so the ground is damp and pushing up around the white rubber trim of his Converse. There’s one on a slightly raised mound of earth near the center, and Steve drops his backpack and wastes no time digging his fingers into the dirt to rip out chunks of grass. He plunges his teeth into his bottom lip and growls, animalistic with the thirst for what’s to come, to satiate this all-consuming anger. He thrusts his fingers into it, mud forcing itself between his nails and the pads of his fingers as he claws at the ground until there’s a large shallow circle cleared before him.

He has to leave the clearing in search of dry wood he can use for tinder, which turns out to be a difficult task. Every moment he spends idle is an opportunity for the rage he harbors to grow restless, to overwhelm him with anticipation and anxiety and a pain that’s all too satisfying. By the time he has a small armful of bark and branches, he’s crying with the emotion of it all, growls ripped from his throat between wet gasps.

His hands are almost useless when he sets to work building a teepee from sticks, smaller pieces of wood lining the base of the little structure, some cardboard scraps and printer paper for kindling that Steve pulled out of his bag. His patience has long since run short once he finishes off the circle with some stones, just to be on the safe side.

He’s sloppy with the lighter fluid, sobbing and near the point of hyperventilation, sloshing it messily over the teepee, probably dousing the ground more than the wood. He fiddles with the matches, his fingers shaking as he strikes it and throws it into the center of the pit.

It roars up, swallows the tinder in it’s lapping flames, tongues of fire reaching towards the sky and eating up the darkness to form a bright flickering pillar above. Steve shuts his eyes and releases a heavy breath, feels his muscles melt underneath his skin and his limbs go slack. He sinks to the ground, eyes lidded, and basks in the content euphoria that washes over him as the tendrils of flames lick at his hands, just out of reach. His anger becomes fodder for the fire, charred to a crisp and replaced with mesmerized excitement. It's warm, bright, the kiss of heat against his front sends sparks up his spine.

Steve sits there for a long time, until he's poking at the dying fire with a stick and twirling his fingers above the last flame. It singes his skin a bit, raises color underneath his flesh. His body feels heavy and sluggish as he drags himself to his feet and stamps out the last of the fire until the only light is from the soft glow of the moon peaked in the sky. He's calm, tired and content as he sweeps the lighter fluid and extra kindling into his backpack and slings it on.

He’s floating on serotonin and dopamine and all that good stuff on the trek out of the forest, savoring the relief that the fire gave him before he has to return to reality. He trudges along, kicking at sprouting weeds that are in his way. Checks his phone, a text from Sam -  _ what was tonight’s chem hw? _ \- to which he responds,  _ the finals study guide you ass _ .

It’s not as easy getting back into his window than it was getting out of it, and surprisingly not much less painful. By the time Steve’s pulled himself through the frame into the heated warmth of his room, shucked off his muddy sneakers and clothes, rubbed the bitter smell of sweat off under a cold shower, and collapsed onto his bed, there’s definitely more bruises cropping up on his skin than there were before he tried scaling the side of his apartment complex. The clock beside his bed blinks 3:17 in bold neon letters after he reads Sam’s reply -  _ thanks a million shithead _ \- and throws his phone to the foot of the bed. His body is completely worn out - numb, aching, even his head feels heavy when it sinks into the pillow, and he’s asleep in seconds.

I I I

Surprise, surprise, Steve’s alarm clock fails to go off the morning after. The only thing that ends up stirring him awake is the morning light and a cold breeze blowing through the window he didn’t even bother to close the night before.

His whole body hurts and the vertebrae pop in his neck when he lifts it to rub the salty crust out of his eyes. His hand flops around for his phone, and he swipes past the lock screen and flips through it. Steve yawns and runs a hand through the mess of blond hair on his head before lugging his dead weight out of bed and rummaging around in his drawers for a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He’s probably not going to make the bus this morning, which sets him up for a thirty minute walk through town. Oh, and English finals, the cherry on top of his curdled ice cream sundae.

It takes Steve ten minutes to get out of the house and headfirst into the brisk morning air. It’s weird how different a landscape can appear from night to day. He’d walked - well, ran - this same stretch of the neighborhood last night. It actually looked kind of interesting, if not depressing, when you stopped to see the overgrown lawns and the loose shingles on the rooftops instead of a blur through the dim light of a lamp post in your peripheral. If he was a poetic kind of guy, he might say the same thing about Bucky. When you stop and notice something for what it is, pay attention to detail and see it in a different light, it gets much more intriguing.

He pulls his flannel tighter against himself as another gust of wind rustles his hair and rouses some pink into his cheeks and nose. It’s one thing if you’re waiting in the cold for the bus, but it’s a whole different story when you’re walking into the belly of the beast - more like the ice cube up Mother Nature’s ass.

The can of lighter fluid is still clanking in the bottom of his backpack as Steve cuts across the street to take what will hopefully be a time-saving shortcut. He doesn’t want to go through downtown anyway, and the forest wraps around a good half of the town so he should be able to get back on the main road fairly close to school.

It’s a much more picturesque walk once he veers away from the garbage cans and ugly mailboxes in plastic pots, and Steve finds himself enjoying breathing in the fresh scent of pine needles once he gets past how freaking cold it is in the winter months. Dead leaves crunch underneath his feet while he looks up at the towering trees splayed out in thin branches that create a lattice high over his head, rays of soft sunlight streaming through the gaps and pouring onto the ground. He thinks about taking Bucky here before nightfall, the colors of the sunset must look beautiful falling through the trees onto the ground that time of day. Probably even better falling onto Bucky’s skin.

He stops at that thought, shocked enough to register his surroundings. He’s in a clearing, smaller than the one that he’s been using, and he’s a few feet away from a small pile of charred ash and a crumpled candy wrapper, not a soul to be seen.

His heart thumps a little faster. He bends down quickly, knees groaning in protest, and skims the lump of ash with his fingertips. Dry.

Dry?

The pit around it is dry as well, the rest of the grass brushed with morning dew.

It’s recent. Someone was here last night. Not him. Not  _ his  _ fire. Someone cleared out a space, lit a fire, and left with only a mound of dust and some litter to show they were ever there.

It couldn’t have been - ?

Steve grabs the wrapper, a deluxe Kit Kat bar with some chocolate crumbs melting in the bottom, and shoves it into his pocket without another thought.

I I I

Steve wouldn’t have even cared if there was someone in the bathroom when he burst through the door and slammed the first stall shut on its hinges. He can’t calm the tremor in his breathing, the throbbing need pooling low in his groin. He doesn’t even try. Just thumbs the lock on the door and grinds the heel of his palm into the bulge tenting his jeans.

He wasn’t even looking for Bucky. It all happened so fast that he could’ve imagined it, maybe influenced by the paranoia that flared up after seeing the remnants on the forest floor. Maybe it wasn’t Bucky’s. Maybe Steve was drawing conclusions too fast and pointing fingers at who he  _ wanted  _ to blame.

But that wouldn’t explain the ring of dirt soaking into the hem of Bucky’s jeans and the smudge of grey ash on the sleeve of that black cardigan, now would it?

Steve’s groan is audible and bounces off the bathroom walls when he fully cups himself through the coarse material of his pants. One hand braces itself weakly against the door, scratching into the painted metal, while the other pulls down the zipper and replaces the gust of cold air with a hot, sweaty palm. He shoves his hips up toward his hand gracelessly, ripping a cry from his throat.

It was Bucky. He knows it with the same primal instinct that surges up when he feels the need to burn, the desire for something he can’t control. Bucky was there, in the same fucking forest on the same fucking night, maybe only a third of a mile between them. Steve imagines it, thinks about what he might have done if he’d seen that wisp of smoke thinning out just above the treeline, calling to him like a siren’s song. If he’d crushed his own fire under his feet and ran, spotted Bucky’’s body hunched over a sputtering flame, if Steve would have slammed him into the ground and pressed him into the dewy grass of early morning. He thinks about swallowing Bucky’s gasp as he licks into that pliant mouth, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, cradling Bucky’s neck in one hand and feeling his pulse thump like a rabbit’s foot beneath hot skin. Steve’s other hand would snake down his body, ruck up that stupid cardigan to feel the flushed skin underneath. That’d make him shiver, Steve’s sure.

Maybe Bucky would give in, melt into Steve’s arms and fist his hands in Steve’s flannel, drag those slim fingers to the unmarred expanse of Steve’s collarbone. Bucky’d bite. The brunet would suck angry bruises to the surface as Steve’s hand abandons the smooth flesh of his stomach to press against the seam of Bucky’s fly. Feel the fabric soak up his precome, a damp, bitter-smelling patch on his jeans. Steve would grind his own clothed erection into Bucky’s, groaning with relief at the friction. And Bucky would be pinned underneath him, brown hair fanned out like a halo, dirt smudged on his face, mouth red and kiss-bitten as he sobbed, canting his hips to meet Steve’s thrusts. Helpless and wanting, gasping wetly around gulps of air, blood filling his dick and the heat of the fire burning down his side. Hot, too hot, almost to the point of pain.

Steve would make him come, unzip his fly and stroke the shaft a few times and Bucky would be gone to the world, lost in a haze of pleasure as Steve’s lips crashed into his. Steve would follow soon after, coming right there in his jeans like a twelve year old watching his first porno. He’d collapse on top of the smaller boy, all lanky arms and coltish legs tangled together in the light of the fire, maybe suck Bucky off lazily just to hear him whimper.

Steve thinks about teasing Bucky’s skin with the heat of a burning ember, enough to hurt a bit and leave a pink trail in its wake. How Bucky would press his head into the ground and suck a breath between his teeth as his dick quakes in response. Dirty. Soiled. Eyes lidded and gazing blearily at Steve’s lips.

Right now, Steve’s hungry for him, crying with need, fucking up into his hand like it’s going out of style. Bucky was there just this morning, he had to be, feeding kindling into the mouth of the flame with hands trembling in excitement. Steve can see it perfectly in his head. And oh  _ god  _ \- Bucky’s still wearing the same clothes, he didn’t even change out of his dirty jeans or wash that precious cardigan he wears all the time before coming to school. He probably still smells like it, the smoky scent of charred pine still clinging to his skin.

Steve comes. Releases into a handful of scratchy school-issue toilet paper, knees shaking and tears in his eyes. He quickly wipes himself off and flushes the evidence down the drain before he collapses onto the seat of the toilet, and cries.

I I I

Finals come and go over the next few days - a six hour period of non-stop testing followed by a shift at the convenience store, then hitting the books before his head hits the pillow when Steve gets home at around nine in the evening, then doing it all over again the next morning. By the end of the week, he’s filled out more scantron sheets than he can count, written enough on-demand essays to raise concern for carpal tunnel, and raked in a hundred bucks by selling the answers to the trig final to some desperate kids in his grade. It’s been a madhouse, he swears. Absolutely insane. If he has to fill out one more multiple choice bubble, his brain is literally going to explode and the janitor's going to have to clean chunks of Steve off the wall.

The school gives them a three-day weekend as a lame excuse for semester break, but Steve isn’t complaining when he wakes up at one o’clock on Monday afternoon. He dresses quickly and is out the door before his mom has the chance to say a word to him, just the way he likes it. He tucks his headphones into his ears and the intro of Sonic Youth’s  _ Anti-Orgasm _ kicks in. The walk to the bus stop isn't too far, fifteen minutes or so on foot, but it gives him a chance to stretch his arms out and bathe in the glory of not being in school right now. Not that spending his time off working an extra shift was a thriller, but it’s better than being at school where Bucky could be lurking. Actually, Steve’s probably the lurker in this situation, but who’s being politically correct here?

It’s just that after The Incident in the bathroom last week, Steve had grown nervous. Scared even, although he could only admit that to himself. Who can blame him though, he’s gone sixteen years without having so much as a real friend, let alone a crush, and he certainly didn’t expect his first one to be on some guy he hardly knew anything about besides his name.

He figures that distancing himself and busying his head with distractions like school would give him some time for the newness to wear off and the real feelings to settle in, but he’s becoming more convinced that this constant need to see Bucky, to learn about him, to touch him, isn’t going to go away. After a few days, Steve’s finding some truth in the saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder."

In fact, he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

When he gets to the bus stop, Steve sprawls himself across the bench - legs splayed, arms flung out over the back of the seat - and hums along with his music, content to watch the cars roll down the street. It’s hot enough that he has to strip off his flannel and tie it around his waist like an idiot. It doesn’t do much to help, considering his work clothes are made from a flimsy polyester that cooks anyone who wears it like a Thanksgiving turkey. Steve sighs and decides that he probably has a few minutes before the bus arrives, so he digs around in his pocket until he finds his zippo and a crushed half-empty pack of menthols.

He hunches over and his hand shields the flame from the wind as he lights the cigarette. The effect is immediate - his muscles loosen while the nicotine swells in his lungs when he takes a long, pleasing drag. He holds it in for a few moments, then lolls his head back and blows it out in a grey plume that gets carried away on the breeze. Another one of his guilty pleasures.

Steve spends the next few minutes sucking down the cigarette, occasionally leaning forward to tap the ash onto the concrete. It's halfway gone when he spots someone out of the corner of his eye. His breath stops short when he turns around and confirms what he thought he saw.

It's Bucky, in a plain grey shirt like the ones you buy in packs of three instead of the usual cardigan, probably because of the heat. His hair is pulled up in a style that is half up and half down and he's carrying some of those reusable cloth shopping bags. Steve's staring at him, and Bucky's staring at the lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. Steve tugs his headphones from his ears and shifts to make room for Bucky on the bench, which the other boy returns with a soft thank-you that has Steve gnawing on the inside of his cheek. The brunet boy doesn't say anything about the cigarette in Steve's hand, but he can't seem to take his grey eyes off it.

Surprisingly, it's Bucky who speaks first. "Uhm, you work at the Fresh-Mart off Sixth Street, right?"

Bucky’s even more lovely up close. Steve forces himself to relax against the seat despite his pounding heart. "Funny you should say that, I'm actually on my way over right now." He looks pointedly at the bags folded neatly on Bucky's lap. "Looks like you are too." he finishes, taking a draw from his cigarette and releasing the smoke through the corner of his mouth.

Bucky laughs awkwardly, scratches the nape of his neck then rests his arm across the back of the bench. "Yeah, just runnin' errands and stuff." A pause. So nervous. "You ah - we go to school together? I'm Bucky."

Like Steve doesn't already know. "Oh yeah, I've seen you around. I’m Steve." He extends the hand that isn't holding his cigarette and Bucky takes it with a look of relief on his face, like he was waiting for Steve to initiate it. The press of his small, thin hand against Steve's larger one sends his heart rate soaring. So fucking soft.

"Hold up, I've seen you in the shop before too. You're the kid who buys all that ramen, aren't you?"

This prompts a real chuckle from Bucky - sweet and airy like a bird's song on the wind, just like he imagined it would sound - and he props his chin up on his hand as his lips turn slightly upward at Steve. "Yep, that'd be me. Hey, I'm sure you were up as late as I was for finals, at least I was smart enough to get sustenance."

Witty. Steve likes that. He rolls his eyes and puts his cigarette back up against his smirk. He takes a long drag and blows the gust of smoke playfully in Bucky's direction. That gets a laugh out of the brunet, all scrunched up eyes and hands batting the cloud away as he squeaks out "what the hell, Steve?" around a bright smile. It's the kind of smile that pokes dimples in his cheeks, wrinkles the skin next to his eyes, positively infectious, and Steve finds his cheeks hurting with the wide split of his own grin. It's over all too soon when the loud rumble of the bus breaks the clarity of the moment, and it grinds up to the curb with an exhausted sigh.

Steve stubs his cigarette out on the bench's armrest and throws it onto the sidewalk before turning to Bucky. "You're going the same way, right?"

Bucky nods shyly and steps through the sliding doors onto the bus, Steve following close after and filling the empty seat next to the boy. Their shoulders bump together lightly and it sends jolts of electricity through Steve’s veins.

Hours later, he still feels the heat of Bucky’s side pressed against his own crawling under his skin.

I I I

To anyone thinking that working the night shift for a big-name retail franchise has any benefits whatsoever, this is a public service announcement :  _ you’re wrong _ . Just picture it. You’ve already been awake for twelve hours when you clock in and your body’s resisting any manual labor you’re forcing it to perform. The customers are either cranky, drunk or just as tired as you, especially the older ones who always have a lecture to give or an insult to throw. It might be somewhat bearable if the conditions weren’t twice as bad as they are during the day, but it’s still the same low pay and the same shitty coworkers, except it’s dark and spooky outside.

This is Steve’s current predicament - spending his wild Friday night staring mindlessly at the computer screen as he scans the items and throws them clumsily into a shopping bag. The usual chick called and asked if he could cover for her last minute, so he’s working the register this evening - which isn’t half as fun as he always thought it would be. He’s been working a lot lately since the teachers seem to be easing them into the second semester and he can handle the homework load enough to squeeze in a few extra shifts. This is what his fleeting teenage years are worth, apparently - seven dollars and twenty-five cents an hour. How utterly pathetic.

There aren’t any customers in his lane after he checks the last person out, a burly guy that looks like he should be sulking in the forest and chopping up firewood, so he grabs a mop and sets about cleaning up the dirt tracks Mr. Lumberjack had left. The asshole.

Occupied with something easier to do, he takes a moment to reflect on the past week. God, the surprise on Bucky’s face when Steve had walked into his new English class and saw Bucky sitting in the back corner, tapping a pencil against his pink lips. When the shock melted into a small smile and he made a motion for Steve to take the empty desk beside him. Steve must’ve looked like such an idiot, almost tripping over his own feet as he walked over and plopped into the seat.

They don’t have much time to talk in class - something seriously crawled up the teacher’s ass and died there - so they pass notes, little blurry drawings or questions like _are you the kind of person who adds the extra milk and butter to your easy mac??_ _because you sure seem like one_ which always make Bucky roll his eyes. Sometimes he catches the skim of Bucky’s fingers when he hands the note back and he’s always unprepared for it.

They’re not really good friends yet - Steve’s never going to be able to think of Bucky as just a friend anyway - so they always split up after English. Steve goes begrudgingly to sit with Sam under the bleachers, but he always finds himself watching Bucky and his red headed friend on the other side of the field, wishing beyond hope that he could be the one keeping Bucky company instead. Sometimes he swears he sees Bucky staring back.

The angels must be shining down on him today when he shakes himself out of dreamland to see Bucky walking down the aisle he’s finishing mopping up. How in god’s name did Steve go so many years without at least registering Bucky’s existence? The kid’s everywhere he goes. Steve leans against the mop in an attempt to strike a nonchalant yet boner-inducing pose, smiling. “Hey, Bucky.”

It catches Bucky’s attention and he walks over, carrying a basket full of carb-soaked junk. He rolls up the sleeves of his black cardigan - does he ever wear anything else? - and smiles as a greeting. “Oh hey, Steve.” His eyebrows bunch together. Cute. “It’s kinda late, isn’t it?”

Steve snorts. “Look who’s talking.”

“Oh, shut up. Why are you working so late? You’ve mentioned hating your job like -” He stops to pretend to count on his fingers. “- a bazillion and one times since I met you.”

Steve shrugs. “What can I say? Consumerism never sleeps, so neither will I.”

Bucky blows out an exasperated sigh and looks like he’s trying to give Steve a serious look, but his eyes are glinting with amusement. He reaches out to pat Steve’s shoulder and says, “Whatever makes it worth the minimum wage, man” before he turns around to head towards the checkout lanes.There’s a buzzing warmth thrumming under Steve’s skin in the shape of Bucky’s handprint on his shoulder, and he scrambles to say something that’ll continue the interaction.

Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Wait! Let me check you out." Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Um, your - uh, items, I mean. I’m on the register tonight. I can, you know. Check them out. If you want.” Nailed it, Rogers. Real fucking smooth.

Steve plucks up his mop and awkwardly rushes to his lane, fiddling with the hem of his shirt while Bucky chuckles and unloads his basket onto the conveyor belt. Steve rings each item and stuffs it into the bag - more ramen, cans of soda, a microwave pizza. What a dork.

Then Steve scans the barcode on a deluxe Kit Kat bar, and his fingers freeze as he's thrown back to the morning he spotted the evidence of a fire. Bucky's fire. He  _ knew  _ it.

Bucky’s pulling his wallet out when Steve gets the idea, abandons Bucky at the register with a quick “I’ll back in a sec” and runs towards the back aisle.

He’s true to his word, and he’s back moments later holding a black bic lighter in a little plastic package. Bucky’s eyes go wide and his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline, but Steve pays him no mind as the scanner beeps and he drops it into the bag with the receipt. Bucky is still staring at him nervously, plucking at his worn cardigan and biting his lip even when the bags are safely in his arms.

Steve’s looking right at him, close enough that he can notice the flecks of blue swirling around Bucky’s otherwise grey eyes. It makes Steve’s heart flip. He leans forward and whispers to Bucky, even when there’s nobody within earshot. “It’s cool, Buck. I get it. Like, I get it.”

In the next few seconds Steve takes notice of the way Bucky’s shoulders melt when it dawns on him that Steve really understands, how his eyes glaze over with something Steve’s afraid to identify, his pink tongue darting out to swipe over his plump bottom lip. Then Bucky reaches over the counter in one fluid motion and takes Steve’s hand in his. The metal chain attached to the store pen jingles as he turns Steve’s sweaty palm up, grazing his thumb across his wrist, and writes out his phone number on Steve’s skin in a tall, looping font. It’s the closest Steve hass been to Bucky since that day on the bus. If he leaned forward an inch, he’d have his nose buried in that soft brown hair.

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand once with his own and it lingers for a moment after Bucky drops the pen back on the table. Bucky’s voice is low and shy when he whispers something that rings deep in Steve’s ears for hours after the boy smirks and leaves the store without another word:

“Nice choice, black’s my favorite color.”

I I I

After that night, it’s like the floodgates burst open and Steve couldn’t put them back up even if he wanted to. Gone is Bucky’s shyness, the hesitation in his smiles, the tremor in his voice when he says something sharp and hopes Steve catches the sarcasm. Steve gave him the validation he needed in those few words, and Bucky picked up on all the undertones - he understands Bucky’s desperate hunger for the bright flare of a fire as it gulps down the tinder, hell, even the flickering light of a flame held close to the skin, because Steve feels the same craving that keeps them both awake at night.

Steve’s not sure if Bucky completely trusts him yet, but he’s more than willing to wait. He’s got him, it all fell into place perfectly and half of it happened by chance alone. Bucky’s social circle is just as embarrassingly lacking as Steve’s is - consisting of only that red headed who Steve later learns goes by Nat, and a sandy blond haired boy named Clint that wears clunky hearing aids. Both are too unaware to share the knowledge of the drive that burns inside of their friend. It’s easy for Bucky to break away from them and spend his lunch periods fucking around with Steve under the bleachers, and Sam couldn’t care less.

Steve’s infatuation never falters, only grows more passionate as the conversations passed back and forth in English continue over text. Steve’s phone will vibrate in the middle of class with a text from Bucky asking for a screenshot of his trig homework, or he’ll open up his messages app in the breakroom at work to see a picture of some tree bark that Bucky claims looks exactly like Vincent Vega from  _ Pulp Fiction _ . Sometimes they stay up until the early hours of the morning texting back and forth until one of them falls asleep, and they pick up right where they left off when they meet on the bus to school a few hours later.

It’s not long before they start hanging out after school hours, going anywhere as long as they’re in one another’s company. Sometimes they don’t have to look further than Steve’s room when his mom’s away, watching B rated horror films on Steve’s laptop with bowls of cold cereal in their hands or laying side by side on Steve’s bed and copying off one another’s homework while a CD’s playing. Bucky’s scent is everywhere even after he leaves, burnt pine and oddly enough, raspberries, hovering underneath a fresh soap smell, and Steve finds himself breathing it in as he tries to fall asleep at night.

On paydays he splurges, spending a good chunk of money on what he’d like to call a date if he ever had the chance. They’ll spend Saturday nights stuffing their faces with pizza and sodas at the bowling alley even though they have no idea how to bowl, and always end up having to raise the bumpers so they don’t get gutterballs every time. The bus only runs until ten o’clock at night, so they’ll end up having to trek back to Steve’s place on foot when the employees finally kick them out. Bucky will usually crash at his house on nights like this, sprawling across the foot of his bed because “my house is too fuckin’ far away, Steve”, and Steve is so totally on board with that idea. In a heartbeat.

But most of the time, they hang out in the forest. Steve hasn’t shown him his spot yet, where he’s burned more wood into the ground than he can fathom, but they discover places that they can share. There’s one spot deep in the woods that has really tall, spindly trees with branches reaching out in all directions that are great for climbing, and they can spend hours at a time sitting high above the ground, straddling the tree’s limbs and holding cigarettes to each other's mouths.

They haven’t really introduced fire, although Steve lets Bucky play with his zippo and teaches him how to do tricks with it. It’s a step up from the black bic lighter Steve got him all those weeks ago which is now covered in stickers and filled up with diesel. Bucky carries it everywhere he goes, and seeing him use it fills Steve with a strange sense of pride.

It’s so nice to have something to be excited about again. To long for someone, to look forward to seeing them. He misses Bucky the moment they part ways, his heart soars when he sees his phone light up with a new message and feels the disappointment plummet him right back down when it’s just his mom reminding him to be back before curfew. Steve feels things other than anger, things that can’t be fixed by running into the forest to release them, emotions that cling to him and rush to the surface at the strangest of times. It’s like Bucky’s pulling back the curtains and shedding light on a range of emotions he didn’t know he could experience, and he feels drunk on the new found happiness in his everyday life. But Steve’s greedy,  _ so greedy _ , and Steve knows he wants more from Bucky than the brunet will ever be willing to give him.

I I I

The three boys are spread out in a striped sort of sunny spot under the bleachers, taking turns sipping the cocktail they'd created from Bucky’s usual can of coke, Steve’s 7-Up, and three Rockstars Sam had stashed in the bottom of his backpack when the bell interrupts them. At Bucky’s question of "what are we going to do with the rest?", Sam knocks the last of it back with a straight face, gathers up his things, and heads in the direction of his next class without a word.

Bucky wrinkles his nose. "Ugh, I know he’s your friend, but he gives me the creeps. How did he do that? I only had a few sips and my hands are shaking - look!" Steve grins at Bucky’s dramatic display of thrusting his hands into the air. Steve matches his enthusiasm and makes a show of lowering Bucky’s hands back down.

"That's 'cause you don't drink 'em often like he does. You don't think the dark circles under his eyes are fake, do you? Kid never sleeps." After a moment, he tacks on, “He’s not my friend”, and slings his backpack over his shoulder.

Bucky cuts him off by catching his wrist and stuttering out a soft "wait", which immediately gets Steve’s attention. Bucky lets go as soon as he turns around, to Steve’s dismay, and he savors the tingle on his skin that lasts for a few moments before fading away. "You're ah, you're free tonight, yeah?"

"Free as the United States." Steve quips back.

Bucky groans. "Really? Is that the best you could come up with? That's a horrible analogy. You're losing your touch, Rogers." Bucky pauses, pushes a lock of his hair back behind the shell of his ear, and continues. "And you're going to work after school too?"

"Yeah." Steve gives him a suspicious look. "No?” he tries instead before stepping closer. “What's the answer supposed to be here? I can try to change my hours if you have something planned."

Bucky holds out his hands like he's trying to stop Steve’s train of thought physically. "No, nothing like that - I mean, it's good that you're working today. I was going to ask you for something.” He licks his lips. “A favor."

Steve can feel his own excitement building. "Ask away."

"Do you think you could get some vodka?"

"From the store?"

Bucky tugs on his fingers. "Yeah, from the store. You see, my parents are out of the house this weekend and they’re taking my little sister and you've never been able to hang out at my place because they’re always there. I, um - had an idea for something we could do, but I know they’ll notice if I have to water any of their alcohol down. You don't have to if you don't want to, I mean it's no big deal -"

It's Steve who cuts him off this time. "I can try. If I have the opportunity to get some, I will."

He gets a classic Bucky smile in response, stretching from ear to ear, crow’s feet crinkling by his eyes.

I I I

Agreeing to bring the alcohol, it seems, is a lot simpler than actually getting his hands on it. When Steve usually gets drunk, it’s off some cheap beer he bummed from Sam, who in turn bummed it from his parents, so Steve’s never had to face the drama of an attempt to obtain some himself. There’s a display case behind the counter that Steve doesn’t have the key to, and there’s no way he could find the time to crack into it with the amount of customers that are pouring in. He briefly considers paying someone to buy it for him, but immediately shoots the idea down. They all know him as the underaged bagger at Fresh-Mart, and there are enough snooping senior citizens around that would be glad to tell his mom that her sixteen year-old son is bribing strangers for alcohol at his place of work.

In the end, Steve takes the bus to a corner store on the outskirts of town when his shift is over, and arrives at Bucky’s place around eight o’clock with a stolen bottle of Smirnoff in his backpack.

Bucky’s house is big, but it doesn’t have the air of grandeur you’d expect from it. He just shows Steve around the first floor, because upstairs is only his parents and sister’s room and a ton of empty closets, and Steve can’t imagine how much it must cost to heat all that blank space. It feels lonely. Steve shouldn’t be one to talk since all he has is a two bedroom apartment to call home that only houses him and his mom but something about Bucky’s house feels hollow even though there are pictures on the walls and nice furniture placed about. It’s no wonder Bucky spends so much time away from home, he looks like he hates it. 

“- and last but not least, drum roll please… I’m serious Steve, it’s not that hard -” Stevemakes an exasperated groan but leans forward and pats his thighs nonetheless, which seems to please Bucky into continuing. “- the backyard!”

Steve’s jaw drops the moment Bucky swings the double doors open. It’s huge; the patio is made from slabs of granite that probably weigh a thousand pounds apiece, and the tiles flare out around the circumference of the yard. There’s a hammock and some garden chairs spread out on the grass next to a deep pool, and when Bucky flips a switch on the wall, a string of hanging lanterns spark and illuminate the area in soft light.

“Are you planning to stand there in shock all night? Because it’ll be much more comfortable if you take a seat and then gawk.” Bucky teases, snapping Steve’s jaw closed with his hand.

Steve chooses to ignore his sarcasm this time, still frozen to the spot. “Shit, Buck. Why didn’t you ever tell me your family’s loaded? I wish your family was gone all the time, this is awesome!”

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual. I wish they were gone more often, too.” He grabs Steve’s hand, the one that’s holding the liquor, and Steve doesn’t know if the way Bucky’s fingers overlap his as they clutch the neck of the bottle is supposed to mean anything. Bucky drags him to the edge of the pool, kicks his shoes off and dips his feet in the water. “Come sit.”

Steve follows suit, rolling up his jeans so they don’t get wet and plops down next to the other boy, who takes the vodka and peels off the red foil. “Ooh, this was your plan? Are we getting drunk next to the pool and gazing at the stars? How cute,” Steve jokes - not really. He sucks in a breath when his feet skim the cold water. “You could’ve asked for something classier than vodka, though. Like wine.”

Bucky unscrews the cap and holds the bottle to his nose, which scrunches up at the smell. “No, we need something strong enough for this to work.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “For what to work?”

Bucky digs his lighter out of his pocket and holds it up so Steve can see it. His grey eyes are gleaming in the artificial light of the lanterns with something mischievous, and an excited grin cracks across his face. “We’re gonna make a flamethrower.”

Steve’s cheeks split to make room for a smile that mimics Bucky’s. His heart rate accelerates and he can already feel sweat gathering on his palms. There’s energy rushing through him even at the suggestion, Jesus, and he pants out, “You’re kidding, we totally shouldn’t”, praying to whatever god’s out there listening that Bucky will do it anyway.

“I saw it in  _ Inuyasha _ one time. Renkotsu did it, no problem.”

Bucky stands up and takes a long swig, right from the bottle, cringes at the taste. It brings a soft blush to his face that makes Steve dig his nails into the flesh of his palms. So, so pretty. “You’re supposed to spray it out between your teeth and make sure it goes through the flame,” Bucky says, clicking his gums for emphasis.

Bucky takes another drink - this time his cheeks swell as he holds it in - and flicks on his lighter. It flares up significantly higher than your typical bic, thanks to the modifications Bucky’s made. Steve is careful to hold it an arm’s length away from Bucky’s face, and when he spits the alcohol out it blasts a hot stream of fire that balloons up into the air like a mushroom cloud. He chokes back the rest of the vodka when the flame gets close to his face and he drops his lighter, falling to the ground with it in excited laughter.

They lose themselves in the adrenaline of the moment, taking turns gulping down the vodka that scorches down their throats and makes their mouths dry, squirting out lines of alcohol over the pool and gazing wide-eyed at the plumes of hot fire that stretch up towards the black night. Their words turn into shouts and whoops and cackles, all lidded eyes and lips wet with liquor, dancing around their flames in drunken disarray. The fire licks so close to Steve’s face one time that Bucky swears he’d burnt his eyebrows clean off, just to be a tease. The touch of Bucky’s hand on his cheek is hotter than anything he’d experienced that whole night and  _ holy fuc _ k, fires are so much better when you have someone to light them with.

Steve wakes up the next morning on the steps of the pool, half-in half-out of the water, and his entire lower body is wrinkled and pruny. He’s got a killer headache and he feels sluggish as he lays out on the dry lip of the pool, the empty Smirnoff bottle at his feet and Bucky’s sleeping form by his head. They’d both stripped down to their boxers when they’d finished half the bottle, pushed each other into the water and floated on their backs to stare at the starless sky.

Steve rolls over to Bucky, tucks a strand of brown hair behind the shell of his ear, still soft as ever even when soaked in chlorine and vodka. Steve would have given in to temptation and pressed their lips together right there, but he wanted Bucky to be fully aware the first time they’d kiss.

I I I

The tone of their relationship shifts after that night, so subtle that Steve would’ve missed it if he wasn’t a pro at obsessing over Bucky’s actions. There’s more fire, which they’re both completely ecstatic over - even if it’s just tinkering with the mechanisms on Steve’s stovetop so the fire flares up when you turn the gas on, “extreme cooking” as Bucky calls it. Sometimes they hike deep into the woods in search of dead birds or squirrels to light up, although Bucky’s always a little squeamish when it comes to that sort of thing.

The upfront sharing of their - let’s face it - pyromania isn’t what feeds Steve’s desire when he’s got his hand on his dick though, even if he much prefers Bucky grinning in the glow of a flame than not. It’s the small things that changed - the way Bucky sits next to him so their sides brush if they’re not sitting perfectly still, how he seems to sink into Steve’s touch when he dares to wrap an arm around the curve of his shoulders, the lingering glances, the increased intimacy. When spring break rolls around, Bucky just packs a suitcase and crashes at Steve’s on Friday and doesn’t leave until the next Sunday evening. It’s notable to mention that he didn’t mind sharing Steve’s bed, and Steve always has to wake up at the crack of dawn to take care of his boner under a cold shower stream before Bucky gets up.

Steve might be reading too deep into it, and maybe Bucky’s just desperate for a close friend who relates to him, but there’s a pulling feeling in his gut that tells him he isn’t over-analyzing this.

Today, Bucky’s supposed to take his behind-the-wheel test for his license and Bucky’s freaking the fuck out. They’ve both had their permits for a while now, too lazy to do anything about it and their parents too absent to take them driving for practice. Although Bucky probably has a few more hours under his belt than Steve does and he’s a pretty decent driver, he’s forgotten half the rules of the road. It doesn’t really help that Bucky’s been digging through Yelp reviews written as long ago as 2006 on the instructor that’s supposed to take him out on the course. Three and a half stars seems a lot worse when you’re focusing on the negative.

To be honest, Steve’s surprised when Bucky’s goddamn Land Rover pulls up to the curb. He really didn’t expect Bucky to pass, but there he is honking obnoxiously outside the house, so Steve pulls on his old leather jacket and laces up his shoes to dart out the door.

Bucky looks overly pleased with himself when Steve slides into the passenger seat, waggling eyebrows and all. “Looks like we won’t have to be taking the bus anymore, you’re welcome.” Bucky chimes.

_ We _ . The corner of Steve’s mouth quirks up slightly, and he straps on his seatbelt. “Isn’t there like a certain amount of time you gotta have your license before you can just take people with you, like a provisionary thing? ‘m pretty sure it’s illegal.”

Bucky turns, a smile playing on his lips. “Only if we get caught.” he says, putting the key in the ignition and flooring it onto the road.

Steve scoffs and leans his head on his hand, elbow hanging out the open window. “Whatever you say, Buck. I sure hope you’re a good driver. Wait, wait, let’s see the license, shall we?”

Bucky crams a hand into his pocket and fishes his wallet out, before he throws it into Steve’s lap. Steve opens it up and there it is in all its glory, already in the tab protected by that sacred plastic sheath made just for licenses. The picture is good, but you can tell that Bucky’s forcing an awkward smile at the camera, and it makes Steve reminisce to the times before he’d coaxed the sweet kid out of his shell.

Steve whistles, strokes his hand over the back of Bucky’s neck in a joking manner that’s totally not a joke at all. “Real cute. You clean up good, Bucky.” The fucker just exaggerates pushing back into the touch, puckers his lips and winks at Steve, then pops a CD into the slot and ends the conversation.

I I I

Bucky ends up pulling into the parking lot of a movie theater - not your average health-inspector-approved cineplex, but a shady run-down establishment that sells hard candy instead of popcorn and projects the movie onto a pull-down screen like they have in portable elementary school classrooms. Steve would complain, but the tickets were dirt-cheap and they get into an R-rated movie without getting carded. It’s mediocre at best, some independent horror flick with a film quality only slightly better than the  _ Blair Witch Project _ . It doesn’t matter, they don’t even pay that much attention to it besides the parts where the serial killer ups the body count. It’s nice getting out and doing something different, even if it’s just wasting time in a different location than usual.

The last sliver of sun is just slipping under the horizon when they walk back to the car side by side. There’s hardly anyone on the road - either because they’re on the edge of town or because the high school’s big football game is tonight, probably both. It’s easy enough to find a drive-through that sells them some sodas and fries absolutely dripping in grease, and after scarfing them down in the parking lot like the growing teenage boys they are, Steve and Bucky make the unspoken unanimous decision to just drive until they run out of gas.

It’s too cloudy to see the stars, but it’s oddly reassuring for Steve to know that they’re up there. There’s a quiet aura around them, a comfortable silence neither wants to break. Bucky is next to him, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, cardigan knotted around his waist.

It’s probably contradictory how physically beautiful someone can look once you get past the shell of their actual appearance. Bucky is good-looking to start out with, but Steve realizes that the more he got to know him, when he decided to shut up for once and listen to what Bucky had to say, the more gorgeous he looked. Because Steve started to see his mind in his features, he saw Bucky’s wit in the cleft of his chin, his happiness in his cheeks where Steve was always waiting for the laughter lines to cave in, that spark of mischief in his eyes that flared up in the smoke of a dead fire when their hands brush together by accident. And now, even in the car’s harsh interior lights, Bucky looks as beautiful as ever.

And it’s that beauty that makes Steve want to drown Bucky’s heart in lighter fluid and set it ablaze, what makes him want to burn his eyes into the sockets and perish in his own shortcomings. Because Bucky is everything Steve isn’t, perfect on the inside and the outside, melded together in one fascinating creature that Steve thinks was made for him to want but never to have. God, how he yearns. Not just the physical closeness, the ability to touch and kiss and feel, to claim and belong. He wants to be the brown hair that spills onto Bucky’s forehead and down to his shoulders, the bones that structure Bucky’s features, the blood pulsing in Bucky’s veins. Engulfed, consumed by the boy who stirs life in his heart, who makes him die a little every day in the knowledge that he’ll never deserve him.

“What are you thinking about?” Bucky whispers.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The car jolts a bit and Bucky blinks, knuckles suddenly turning stark white on the steering wheel.

Steve claps a hand over his mouth.  _ Fuck _ . He didn’t just say that. He didn’t just say that, not to Bucky’s face.

It’s over, it has to be, all those months of earning Bucky’s trust and sharing his company - oh god, he’d never even thought about what it’d be like to lose him after getting a taste of what real happiness feels like.

The silence stretches on for what seems like an eternity, each second filled with agonizing panic on Steve’s part - what could he say to shrug it off? Just fucking with you? Just joking?

But when he dares to look over at Bucky, he doesn’t look angry. Not the firm line his mouth presses into when he’s pissed off or even irritated. Instead it’s slightly open, shuddering out deep breaths and he looks just as nervous as Steve feels. When Bucky speaks, his voice sounds dry and wrecked.

“Thank god.”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes for everything Steve knows as truth to be thrown out the open window and into the night behind them. Bucky is looking at him, teeth dug into his chapped lips, eyes soft and holding so much meaning it chills the very marrow in Steve’s bones. Bucky gulps, heart rate soaring up into the heavens, and Steve asks quietly, “Can I try something?”

Bucky nods mutely, and without skipping a beat, Steve presses a feather-light kiss to the boy’s jaw. His skin is soft and supple, just like he knew it would be. Bucky’s response is immediate, a breathy gasp, and Steve was going for something classy and sweet, but he just can’t hold the moment.

He melts into Bucky, arms curling around the small frame, lips latched to the column of his neck. Steve groans at the feel of Bucky’s warm body trembling in his arms, how he whimpers and tilts his head for Steve to suck bruises into his flesh. "God, you're fucking perfect..."

The car jerks forward, and Bucky’s panting out “fuck, Steve, Jesus Christ” into his Steve’s flesh, trying to keep his hands steady on the wheel. And Steve doesn’t care, can’t help the way his hand smooths over Bucky’s fly and pops open the button, drags down the zipper, feels the swell of Bucky’s dick as it presses up towards his hand. He’s waited so long, been so patient, and even if he never sees Bucky again after this, he’ll at least have this memory.

Bucky keens at his touch, a high whine in the back of his throat, and that’s all the permission Steve needs to close his fist around the other boy’s dick, his cold, sweaty palm twisting up the hot shaft in a way that makes Bucky catch his lip underneath his teeth and his breath hitch. Steve licks a wet trail up his neck, muttering Bucky’s name around gasps of air. He can feel his own cock filling up his his jeans and he squeezes his thighs around it to relieve some of the pressure. He’s making Bucky feel good right now, that’s his first priority. Just wants to make him come.

Bucky jolts when Steve dips down to taste him and he bites out “Oh god, Steve, you’re gonna make me crash the fucking car” through clenched teeth. He’s muttering out nonsense, blissed out as Steve wraps his lips around the head, the hot slide of his erection over the roof of his mouth. Bucky’s fingers are tangled in a mess of Steve’s hair, and Steve fucking growls when he manages to suck him down to the hilt.

His fingers are digging into the curve of Bucky’s hips, delicate as bird wings. Bucky is worked up, so ready and willing and needy, and only minutes later the car nearly veers off the road when he spills out his release.

Steve groans, tastes Bucky as it hits the back of his throat while Bucky’s hips are still pumping upwards in desperation, slides his tongue over his teeth to savor it. Bucky moans, nails sinking into Steve’s scalp as he comes down from the high, pets over the back of Steve’s neck with trembling fingers. Steve collapses, head resting on Bucky’s thighs, mouthing at any skin he can reach as he looks up at Bucky’s face - wet with tears and eyes filled with adoration.

The car grinds to a stop on the side of the road and it’s Bucky who yanks Steve up by the shoulders and shoves their lips together, all teeth and tongue and raging with pent-up desire. Steve’s hands hook under Bucky’s jaw and he strokes his thumbs over his cheekbones, while Bucky’s grabs a fistful of his leather jacket that he uses to drag Steve closer until he’s got a lapful of Bucky in his arms.

They kiss until their mouths hurt, and they break apart with twin smiles on their faces. They don’t bother driving back home that night, content to share one another’s heat as the world keeps turning outside the fleeting moment between them.

I I I

It’s the last day of school when Steve finally takes Bucky to his little sanctuary in the forest. While all the other kids are loitering outside the school gates signing yearbooks and making carpool plans for the end-of-the-year house party, Steve grabs Bucky’s hand and they run to his Jeep - purchased as soon as he got his license a few months after the other boy - and they take off in the direction of the woods.

God, it’d all passed in a whirlwind since that night in the car. Steve had woken up pressed against the smaller boy in the passenger seat, one arm supporting the mess of brown hair on Bucky’s head, the other slung across the small of his back. The car had been silent for a moment once Bucky had stirred awake shortly after Steve, neither of them focused on anything but the soft breathing of the other. He’ll never forget Bucky’s question, “Do you - is this… can this not be just a one time thing?”, nervous as the day they first saw each other in the convenience store. Steve had just smiled and tightened his arms around the body pressed to his chest and whispered, “I don’t know about you, but I could get used to this.” It was really as simple as that.

The shift from friends to boyfriends had been as natural as the rest of their relationship - it just fell into place for them to pick up where they’d left off. Homework assignments abandoned for make-out sessions on Steve’s bed, tree-climbing in the woods substituted with scraped knees from blowjobs on the forest floor, that sort of thing. As expected, they became “that one gay couple” at school, which made their teachers protect them and would’ve made the girls fawn over them if Steve and Bucky were more popular.

It was all he ever could’ve wanted, and then some.

He parks the car on the side of the road when dusk hits, the last of the day’s light pinking up the sky. Steve grabs the shopping bags full of firestarter logs and iced tea from the backseat, and leads Bucky to his spot with a hand around his wrist.

It seems like a long time since he’s been here when they break through the thicket of trees to the clearing. It has been a long time, at least five months since his last fit of anger that drew him into the forest to light up a pile of dry bark in a crackling fire that burned his sorrows away with it. Bucky changed fire for the better, steered him away from getting caught in the throes of rage that only a flame could satiate, and replaced it with excitement and a rush of buzzing energy. And now he would get to literally burn away the bad memories this beautiful clearing held, alongside the boy that made it worth all the pain.

It doesn’t take a long time to find a good patch of ground to set up the kindling, and Bucky joins him in clearing the area of weeds and shrubs until there’s a clean circle before them. Steve throws a few firestarter logs into the shallow pit and splashes them with half a can of fluid - way more than enough to spark a blazing bonfire. The adrenaline is pulsing through him already, something that’s never going to wear off, and it looks like Bucky’s high on it too - flushed and jittery and smiling from ear to ear, crouched next to the circle.

When Steve fishes out the matches, Bucky speaks, breathy in anticipation. “Can I light it, Stevie?”

Steve digs a blanket out of the bag and spreads it out a few feet away from the pit. “Have you ever lit up a fire like this?”

Bucky snorts in response. “Don’t be stupid.”

Steve laughs and tosses the matchbox over, which Bucky barely manages to catch. “Be my guest.”

“Punk.” Bucky quips, but there’s no real bite in his words. He strikes the match, leans back as he throws it onto the log. It flares immediately and a great wall of fire soars upwards, spitting out embers that pierce the swirls of smoke with tiny pinpricks of light. Bucky cries out in elation, eyes shining in the lapping flames. Steve grins at him and pats the empty spot on the blanket, holding out an unopened can of Arizona that Bucky takes after curling up next to him.

Steve loops an arm around his shoulders and kisses his temple, murmurs “Good job, ‘s pretty” against his skin. “You’re pretty.” he tacks on after a moment. Bucky playfully elbows him in the gut, telling him to shut up, but there’s a blush spreading over his cheeks that Steve knows isn’t from the fire. He hums, holds Bucky’s head as he kisses him - from the curve of his cheekbone to the ridge of his jaw, a teasing one on the corner of his mouth before he licks those plush lips open, the wet slide of their mouths slotting together.

Bucky’s so easy, just moans into Steve’s mouth and braces his hands on Steve’s shoulders. Somehow this always happens when they light things up, but who’s complaining? It’s the heat probably, the press of lapping flames by their sides and the suffocating warmth their bodies emanate when they’re molded together, the leftover endorphins from the buildup begging to be released. Steve groans, pushes his weight more fully onto Bucky until the brunet is flat on his back and Steve’s arms are caging him in. Their arms wrap around one another like they’d be ripped apart at any second.

Steve breaks the kiss, trails his lips down to suck at the pulse point hammering in Bucky’s neck. “Let me have you, Bucky,” he mutters wetly. Bucky whimpers, fingers raking back the blond hair that curls gently along Steve’s hairline. “Please, let me have you... let me touch you, let me make you feel good…”

He can feel it when the last shreds of pride and modesty leave Bucky, when he goes boneless and pliant under Steve, just nodding and babbling “yes, please, anything”, trying to get his hands beneath Steve’s shirt so he can feel the bare, warm skin. And then Steve’s hovering over him, bracing his forearms on either side of Bucky’s head. His knee slips between Bucky’s legs, and both of Bucky’s thighs spread around it.

Steve releases him for just a moment to pull his own t-shirt over his head, unbuttons his jeans to relieve some of the pressure on his growing erection. Then his fingers are sliding underneath Bucky’s shirt and cardigan, rucking up the fabric to see the expanse of pale skin that seems to stretch on for miles. He can’t help it - his lips latch onto Bucky’s nipple the moment it’s exposed to the night air, and he runs his hands greedily over Bucky’s naked chest, gently dipping between the grooves of his rib cage.

Bucky cries out and thrusts his hips up, squirming in his jeans. He pants as Steve divests him of the rest of his clothes, lets Steve peel off his jeans and tug down his boxers. Steve’s there the whole time, whispering praise into his ear, plastering his body with his own like he’s trying to shield him from the rest of the world, and with what a freak Steve is, that’s probably what’s running through his mind.

Steve kisses him while he prepares him with spit-slicked fingers, moves his lips sweetly over Bucky’s, tries to pour all of his feelings into it and suck all the discomfort out of what he’s doing. There’s sweat gathering on Bucky’s brow, a thin layer between his thighs and over his stomach. Steve swallows the boy’s moans and thrusts his fingers deeper.

By the time he’s done, Bucky is writhing underneath him, overstimulated and desperate, clawing at Steve’s shoulders, begging for him to take him.

Steve gently brushes his fingers against Bucky’s cheek to calm him and cradles Bucky’s head in his hands, asking if he’s ready. Bucky arches his back and cries, “Please, Stevie... want you, love you…”

And that’s all Steve needs.

Steve holds Bucky’s hips up with shaking hands and sinks in slowly, just the head at first, then inch by inch until he’s completely sheathed in Bucky’s tight heat. And Bucky’s completely ruined beneath him, begs him to move between whines and gasps, and Steve pushes him into the sweat-dampened blanket, the fire still scorching beside them. He works him with all he has, lets his love bleed into his touches, and he knows Bucky understands completely. Steve has never been very good at emotions beyond feeling them, and he has no idea how to handle the tender drag of Bucky’s lips on his.

When Bucky comes, he’s sobbing and messy and smiling, hugs Steve and holds him close after he finds his release soon after. They’re both spent, too tired to do anything but exchange soft, lazy kisses and tease each other in a comfortable manner they’ve been used to since their friendship began.

They stay that way for a long time, tangled in one another’s arms until their roaring fire is down to a pile of glowing embers and mountain ash. The moonlight pours over the clearing in soft rays that illuminate their naked bodies, but for the most part, Steve’s eyes are closed and his nose is pillowed in the hair on the crown of Bucky’s head. He listens to Bucky as he talks about anything, everything, plays with Steve’s fingers when he runs out of things to say.

Then it’s silent, save for their soft breathing mixing in with the sound of the forest at night, which eventually lulls Bucky into a soft sleep.  _ God _ , Steve loves him. More than Bucky will ever understand.

So Steve counts his blessings, thanks whatever divine being that put him in this moment with this boy, and prays for more times like these to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this little one-shot with my favorite boys! In case some of you didn't realize, I've started a new series that will be a collection of fics that will revolve around Dark Steve (because I'm an absolute sucker for it). So be on the look out for future new fics! 
> 
> And thank you in advance to everyone who reads/kudos/comments on this one shot. It means a lot!


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